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MINKA
“That’s three for three.” Detective Fox stands over me while I examine the body of our latestsupposedmurder-suicide. “But they screwed up on that last, when folks saw the shooter speed away.”
“Space, please.” I shuffle around Freyja Churchill’s body and analyze the neat bullet hole in the side of her head, while, following me, Aubree documents my every move.
“See the angle at which the bullet entered?” I inch to the side to make room for Aubree, but Fox tries to sidle in closer and take a look.
We both stop our work and stare at him in silence.
“Nope?” He raises his hands and backs up. “Okay.”
“Entered through her left temple,” I continue. “Exited through her right cheek.” With gloved hands, I tilt Freyja’s head and allow Aubree space to see. To learn. “Fragments of a nine-millimeter bullet lodged in her left shoulder.” This time, I look to Fox. “Through Henry’s head, out the other side to stop here.”
“Both were shot from the driver’s side of the car?” Again, he comes too close, so his aftershave fills my lungs and his arm brushes mine.
An involuntary snarl works along my throat, but I clamp it down and refuse to entertain the thought—anythought… about Archer, or Beau Fox. Or Diane Philips. Or Mia Fletcher. Or hair appointments. Or Seraphina Lewis.
“Shooter stood outside the vehicle,” I murmur instead, trying to calm myself. Control myself. Get through this shitty day and move on with my life. “Took out Freyja first. The bullet went through her and lodged in the door panel of the car. She slumped over, dead before she had time to think, then the shooter took out the driver. It was all over in half a second, but that was still enough time for Henry to freak out. Sobang. Through his temple, out the other side. Slug lodges in Freyja’s shoulder. Gunshots are heard, police sirens wail, getaway car squeals off.”
Pushing up to stand tall, I look to Fox with an expression of neutrality. “Not a murder-suicide. In fact, your killer is getting sloppier.”
Aubree’s head comes up as she asks, “So why is some guy running around Copeland murdering couples in their cars? For what possible reason?”
“Not our job.” I peel my gloves off and drop them onto my instrument table. “That’s not for us to concern ourselves with.”
“No, I know, but—”
“If that’s all, Detective Fox.” I grab the recorder from my tray and switch it off. “The medical examiner’s office is officially calling this a double homicide. We’ll run the standard testing to see if we can find any link to your other cases.”
With a nod toward Aubree, I make my way to the door and pull it open, while Seraphina skitters across the tile in heels. She’s been chasing me all day, and I’ve been avoiding her as best I can.
“Doctor Emeri, if you could move Mrs. Churchill to the second floor, that would be helpful.” I look to Fox and incline my head in that way that says I’m pretending to be respectful, but mostly, I’m just leaving. “I’ll write my report immediately and send it over. Beyond that, I believe we’re done here.”
“Doctor Mayet!” Seraphina skids to a stop beside me, brandishing her planner the way a knight might’ve held their sword. “You’re already late for hair,” she snarls. “You skipped nails completely.”
Unbothered, I look down at my hands and head toward my office. “I have nails already. I don’t need more.”
“You will be on every television in the city in a matter of hours.” Her heelsclick-click-clickto keep up with my pace. “Don’t you care about your cuticles?”
“Not nearly as much as you think I should. I can brush my own hair, Fifi. I can apply my own mascara.”
“You will not call me Fifi!” she exclaims. “And no, you can’t brush your own hair, because all you do is leave it to hang loose—or, on your extra fancy days, you toss it into a bun. Neither of which are suitable for—”
“What’s wrong with a bun?”
“Doctor Mayet?” Detective Fox steps out of the autopsy room and moves in our direction. “Can I have a word?”
“No words necessary.” I shove through my office door and leave the glass to slowly close on its own.
Unfortunately for me, Seraphina traipses through, and a mere second later, Beau follows.
“You need a final dress fitting.”
“We need to discuss the gun that was used to kill Freyja and Henry Churchill,” Fox interjects.
“I need peace and quiet,” I tell them both. Pointing at Seraphina, I say, “The dress was already fitted once. It’s fabric, and I have a body to drape it on. It’s gonna be fine.” Then to Fox, “As I said, I will write my report and forward it to your office. You following me to mine is both unnecessary and delaying that process.”
“I need you in the stylist’s chair by five,” Seraphina demands. “Five! It’s already three.”
